Sunday, June 2, 2013

Everyone once in a while, usually when in the dentist’s
chair, I think of the lyrics to this song by Don Gardner:

All I want for Christmas
is my two front teeth,
my two front teeth,
see my two front teeth!

Gee, if I could only
have my two front teeth,
then I could wish you
"Merry Christmas."

The new dental hygienist
noticed my two upper caps.

“Car accident?”

No, nothing that commonplace. My mishap had drama, flair,
and a piece of showbiz involving a major golf tournament at the prestigious
Southern Hills Country Club. And no, it wasn’t a wayward golf ball. Here’s
the story:

This happened back in the day, way back in the day, before
satellite television and cell phones. (Yes, I am that old.) My Southwestern
Bell crew had the assignment to assist in the broadcast of a PGA Championship
golf tournament. This was an undertaking of staggering proportions back then.
The work began almost a year before the actual event when trenching machines began
laying video cable all over the course. Yep, that’s the way we got short
distance TV from point A to point B. Our job was to not only feed the video
from the cameras to the various network trucks, but to send the on-air signal
to the AT&T Television Operating Center in downtown Tulsa where it was then distributed to millions of viewers. To do that, we
had to erect a 60 foot temporary tower very near the final hole and use
point-to-point transmission to relay the signal.

At one time during play, via one of the cameras, I could see
that Jack Nicklous was approaching the tee nearest my
station. I admit to abandoning my post at the microwave transmitter long
enough to watch that golfing legend hit the ball. To this day, I can still close my eyes and
see him puff up like a big ol' frog and hammer that thing.

Few people ever see what happens after a golf tournament,
after the trophy is awarded, and all the players go home. Somebody has to tear
all that equipment out and clean up the mess. One of those people was me.
Cables were coiled and stored, racks full of electronics were dismantled, and
oh yeah, that 60 foot tower had to come down. Ron, my old drinkin’ buddy, and I were given the job to go
to the top and start in. Two other fellas, one a new guy by the name of O’Dell
Robertson, were to stay on the ground and work the ropes. The tower was made of
heavy aluminum, box-like, about four foot square if I remember
correctly. It was assembled and disassembled in sections, kind of like Tinker
Toys. A device called a davit, like what you might see to lower a lifeboat from
a ship, was used to lower each section as the locking pins were removed. A long
rope, or tag line, reached to the ground and was used to steady the descending
sections to keep them from getting hung up on the remaining part of the tower.
There were guy lines of course, to keep the whole thing from falling over in a
gust of wind. These lines were disconnected, section by section, as the tower
came down. Things went smooth enough although being that high in the
air on such a shaky apparatus wasn’t all that much fun, but we were about
done. The men on the ground removed the last of the guy wires. Ron and I hooked
up another section to the davit and raised it up and over the side. O’Dell was
on the tag line. To this point, O’Dell had been doing a great job of keeping
the sections clear of obstructions by putting a fair amount of diagonal pull on
the rope. What this collection of brilliant technical minds failed to consider
was that without any form of guy line, the force being applied by O’Dell was more
than enough to tip the tower over. I heard someone call out, “IT’S FALLING!”

Estimated height of the tower at this crucial moment was in
the neighborhood of fifteen to twenty feet, much more survivable than the
previous sixty, but still a long way to the ground. I was inside the framework of the tower and
did not have a lot of options. I grabbed two round beams, one on either side,
and managed to position my body between them. I clearly recall my logic. “If I
can just stay between the beams, the whole thing will crash around me. I’ll be
fine.”

It worked, up to a point. The problem was, I forgot to
release my death grip on the beams as my feet made impact. My legs bent under
the weight, forcing my now stationary and upright knees into my face that was still traveling at the approximate speed of Mach One. Goodybe teeth.Ron managed to ride it down with one arm slung over a beam.
He still had his teeth but his shoulder suffered some damage.

We were checked over at the emergency room where x-rays were
taken. No broken bones thank goodness, but I still had a stop to make at the
dentist office.

I can still remember his words. “Young man, you’ve had a rough
day and I know you’re in pain, but I’m about to help you with that.” And bless
his heart and his happy gas, he did.

Saturday, May 25, 2013

Even before retiring from the telephone company, I had a
dream of becoming a professional wildlife photographer. It was only wishful
thinking at that point, but I could easily see myself traveling the highways
and backroads with my pop-up camper, visiting every national park and wildlife
refuge in the country, all the while adding quality images to my files. I would hook up with
a photo stock company and make enough sales to supplement my meager pension
from Ma Bell, i.e., beer money. I had no illusions of becoming rich and famous,
far from it. Photographing wildlife was and always will be my passion; making a
profit was simply icing on the cake.

I stayed on track the first couple of years, visiting and
photographing in such places as Yellowstone, Glacier, and Arches N.P. to name a
few. I hit wildlife refuges from Maine to New Mexico. I submitted to and was
accepted by two stock agencies.All was
roses.

Another year passes. Total image sales? About 4.
Profit/loss? We won’t go there. One of many unforeseen factors was the amazing
technologies going into the new cameras; auto focus, auto exposure, auto flash,
more frames per second, and then came digital. Suddenly, those once in a
lifetime captures were becoming common place. The grizzly bear catching a
salmon in midair was now ho-hum. An eagle swooping in for a fish had become
dime-a-dozen. The pros had gone from selling photos to leading tours and
workshops to make a living.

Oh, I had my moments. I sold to a few magazines, a postcard
company, a couple of book publishers. And once every blue moon, I would get a
check for a hundred bucks or so from the stock agency. The problem was, I was
getting more and more requests for free photos, donations, giveaways. “We don’t
have the budget to pay you, but you will get a credit under your photo.” And
yeah, that was kind of fun. Seeing your photo with your name blazoned across
half a page of a glossy publication, a recognition of sorts. Made me smile.

But at one point–my dreams of becoming a pro now only a fond
memory– I was shocked to get a late evening call from the photo editor of
National Wildlife magazine. NATIONAL WILDLIFE BABY! Woo Hoo. Big time mag.
Major player. How he got my name and number I don’t know, but he told me he
needed some photos of Oklahoma’s Tishamingo National Wildlife Refuge and he
needed them in a hurry. I was packing my bag and gear and headed south before
the phone line got cold. Bright and early the next morning, I was shooting away
at some snow geese (about the only actual wildlife I could find on short
notice) but took several landscape shots. Made the 3 hour drive back home,
transferred the shots to a CD, sent it Priority Mail, sat back and waited for the
big bucks to roll in.

Didn’t happen. In fact, nothing happened. No thanks for your
submission, no better luck next time, no close but no cigar. Well, crap.

A year or so later, I receive an e-mail informing me that
National Wildlife has seen one of my photos on a web site somewhere and was
wondering if I would donate it. I couldn’t resist, even though I was still
pissed. It was, after all, national exposure and I granted permission.

Then, a week ago, it happened again, another request for a
free photo. My reply:

I am honored that such a prestigious magazine as
National Wildlife would feel that one of my images was of such quality to be
featured in one of your upcoming publications.

I should have stopped
there...but no.

However, I would be even more honored if National Wildlife could find a
few bucks in their deep pockets to pay for the damn thing. I doubt that you
work for free, lady, and I don’t either.

Sincerely…

And that my friends, is how you close out a
career as a professional wildlife photographer.

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

It had been a while since I’d dared to venture onto the water
with Arnold. Faithful readers of past experiences concerning Arnold and a boat
will remember the many near death occurrences as we navigated the local lakes
and waterways in pursuit of a fish or two. You may also recall that alcohol
was, predictably, a factor.

It started with a phone call. “I got me a brand new
Minn Kota trolling motor,” Arnold exclaimed. I could hear the excitement in
his voice.“What was wrong with your old one?” I ask.

“Well, nothing until my son tried to drive the boat on the
trailer while the trolling motor was still down.”(Ah, ha. Let the record show
that Arnold’s catastrophes do not always happen while I’m around, just most of
the time.)

“This one is a doozy. It has this feature that will keep the
boat within five feet of where you tell it to stay.”

“Bull."

“No, no. It will. Or so they claim. We got to try it out.”

This I had to see. We loaded up, stocked the ice chest with
beer (of course), and took a couple fishing poles to Lake Skiatook.

It was nippy out, the wind from the north, but the sun was
shining and we were blessed with a rare phenomena in Oklahoma, clear skies with
only ten miles per hour wind, well maybe 15. Of course, we could have simply motored out a few
hundred yards or so, dropped the new trolling motor, checked it out, and then have
a few brewskies. But no. Arnold drops the hammer on the big motor and we head
into the wind to try and locate some underwater structure on his fish finder.
Why? I have no idea as Arnold didn’t intend to fish it anyway.

It’s time for the big test. Arnold throws out an orange
float with a lead anchor on it. This will be our point of reference. We lower
the trolling motor and Arnold hauls out yet another feature of his new toy, a
remote control. Yes, a remote, just like the one for your TV. Lord, lord, what
will they think of next?

Arnold punches some buttons. The Minn Kota comes to life.
And damned if it didn’t do as claimed. Well, maybe not five feet, but close
enough. As we drifted downwind, the thing would power up, change heading, turn
the boat around, and take us right back to our little orange marker. Amazing.
We sat in the back of the boat, relaxing with beers in hand, and marveled at
the technology.

With most people, that would be the end of the story. Not
with Arnold. He decides we might as well fish a little since we’re there and heads
up a narrow creek lined with dead trees. No, we didn’t sink the boat on a stump
but we did run aground on a sandbar. It took a while, but a few anxious minutes
later, we were able to pull ourselves free with the motor and not have to jump in and push.
Did I mention the water temp was 55 degrees? I know this because the trolling
motor told me so.

Arnold does catch one little bass, but that was it. We were
out of beer and decide to call it quits and head for the ramp. By now the wind
has risen to the more familiar rate of 20-25 miles an hour. Lots of waves, a
very rough and bumpy ride, but that does not deter Captain Arnold and we speed
across the lake with all the power the 150 horse Mercury can muster. That is
until the brand new fancy and very intelligent Minn Kota trolling motor got a
case of the dumb ass and shook loose from its mount, flopping into the water
while the boat was doing a good 50 mph or so. There was a loud thump as a huge
splash of cold water drenched the boat. Oh no! For a moment, I’d thought we’d
torn the motor from the mount, to die a watery death at the bottom of the lake.
No. The Minn Kota hung on. Arnold checks the shaft for odd angles, but all
appears well.

All in all, it was a good outing. The sun was bright, birds were
singing, and nobody died.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Scarlet Tanager: it sounds like something you might order at
a bar in Cancun, but in fact happens to be the name of strikingly beautiful
bird. The male, in breeding colors of brilliant red with black wings, is about
seven inches long with a wingspan of 11 inches or so. Some of you local Alert Readers may be familiar
with the more common Summer Tanager, not at all unusual in Oklahoma,
particularly in the, well…summer.

For years, I’ve been aching
for a chance to photograph the Scarlet but it was not to be. Oh, there were sightings,
or so I’d heard, just down the road in the Ancient Forest Preserve. But the
bird remained elusive to these old eyes, nary a glimpse much less an image. And
so it was when I read about a place called High Island in Texas where the
Scarlet is not rare but downright common in the month of April, I had to go.

High Island, Texas is on a tall salt dome on the Bolivar
Peninsula at the extreme eastern end of Galveston County. Its
thirty-eight-foot rise above sea level makes High Island the highest point on
the Gulf of Mexico. Its
wooded areas are unlike anything elsewhere on the upper Texas coast and provide
a natural refuge for migrating birds working their way north.

My first day at
High Island was dark and overcast; nothing like what the weather boys had
predicted when I left home. So what else is new? Nobody can predict weather in
the spring. The Audubon Society manages four refuges here, one of which is
called the Boy Scout Woods, and that’s where I started my pursuit of the
elusive Scarlet. Just inside the gate stood, of all things to see in the woods,
a grandstand, for the sole purpose of watching water drip to see what birds
were attracted to it. The grandstand was at full capacity. Whoa, this was some serious
watching going on here. I stood at one end, watched the drip, drip, drip for a
while, saw a few birds, no Scarlet, and moved on.

But on the very
first trail, high in a tree, a flash of red. YES! At last, a good look. The
problem was, I had a 400 mm lens, hand held, and the bird was a good 30 yards
away. Here, let me just say that a 7 inch bird, at that distance, bobbing on a
twig in 15 mph wind on a dark overcast day, is not an easy subject. I grabbed
two quick frames and whoof, the bird flew away. A quick review of the LCD
screen confirmed my fear, not sharp, not sharp at all. ARRGGGGHHHH! Surely
there would be other more photographer friendly opportunities, but nooooo. It
would be the only Scarlet Tanager I would see for three more days.

One of the events
that High Island is famous for is the so called “fall out”. This is the rare phenomena
where a weather front from the north moves in with falling temps and high
winds, effectively halting the bird migration. The birds, exhausted from
fighting the wind and cold, land at the first wooded spot they see–High
Island–and stop to rest, maybe have a drink or two. My plans were to leave the
next morning, but after watching the Weather Channel that night, I changed my
mind. The prediction (there’s that prediction thing again) was that the
temperature would drop to 58 degrees overnight with rain and 15-25 mph wind out
of the north. Hey, are we talking fall
out or what? I made a new reservation.

This time, the
weather folks were right. The rain, the cold, the wind, all happened just as
they said it would. I was at High Island at first light. So was half of
Houston. The parking lot, only dotted with cars the day before, was packed,
with the overflow stretching down the road for a hundred yards or more. The
word was out. Damn birders.

I had a spot in
mind. It was a mulberry tree just a short walk from the parking lot where
several species were observed the day before, enjoying the fruit; Indigo
Bunting, Rose-breasted Grosbeak, and Eastern Kingbird, to name a few. Guess
what other bird loves mulberries? Hee,hee, you guessed it.

But someone had beaten
me to the tree. A guy in typical birder/photographer apparel–vest, floppy hat,
long-sleeved shirt with pants tucked inside his socks, binoculars, and a
camera– was staring intently into the branches. I quietly asked him if he had
seen any Scarlet Tanagers.

“Yes, he said, enthusiastically,
his eyes bright with excitement. “Not more than a few minutes ago.”

Hoo Boy.

But the guy was
like a Jack Russell Terrier with a squirrel up a tree. Round and round the tree
he went, never stopping, poking his lens between the branches, effectively
scaring the bejesus out of any bird that had any inkling of landing for a quick berry or two. I
watched, I waited, hoping the guy would give up and move on. Didn’t happen.
That’s when I spotted a Scarlet Tanager amidst a very thick tree, the branches
so dense, a photo was impossible. I could see the poor bird was starving for a
mulberry. I wanted to tell the guy, “Hey dumb shit, get the hell out of there
and quit scaring the birds.” But sensing that particular comment would not fit
within the Birders Rules of Etiquette, I tried a different approach.

“Excuse me, sir.
I’m rather new at this but I was thinking, maybe if we backed away from the
tree a bit, perhaps the birds would be less fearful in their approach.”

The man looked at
me and blinked his eyes like a bullfrog in a hailstorm. “Yeah, he said. “Okay.”
and went right on with his manic maneuvers, flitting around and poking between
the branches with his point and shoot.

The Scarlet Tanager,
bless his brave little heart, said hell
with it and made a dash for the tree. I had the camera set to six frames
per second and got off three quick shots, only one of which was decent before the
Scarlet said Screw this. This ain’t the
only mulberry tree in town, and left for parts unknown.

The fall out? Didn't happen. Not that I could tell anyway. I guess birds don't always follow the rules.

All in all, it
was good outing. Got a few new photos, enjoyed the fresh Gulf air, even saw an
alligator or two. I would make one small suggestion to the Audubon Society.
Have one day for birders and one day for photographers, maybe alternate days. Let’s
face it, the two species do not mix well. Violators would be banned from High
Island. Seems fair to me.

Sunday, March 31, 2013

We’ve all done it, lost our glasses, our cell phone, our car
keys, the remote, a wallet, or sometimes, temporarily, a kid or two. I’ve
noticed that age is a factor in losing things. The older you are the more items
you tend to misplace and misplaced sounds much less drastic than lost as in the ship was lost with all hands. All
you know is that it wasn’t where you thought it was. And if you find it, it
wasn’t really lost was it? Out of sight perhaps or absent without leave, but
surely not…lost.

In my recent case, it was the checkbook. I had the bank
record of where I’d written the last check but that was 20 days ago and when the
man who just finished some tree work for me wanted to be paid, no checkbook. Luckily,
I found another pad of new checks but where on earth was that familiar blue
cover and its precious contents?

The customary location for safekeeping was, of course, barren
of checkbooks. Secondary sites were scrutinized; the top of the dresser, jeans
pockets, jacket pockets, the car I was in when the last check was written (at
least I think that was the vehicle I was in.) You see, the longer you think
about it, the harder you try to remember, the more the mind starts playing evil
little tricks. Where exactly, if anywhere, did you visit after writing that
last check; the grocery, a Wal-Mart, maybe the liquor store? Think! Think!

The search began, cursory at first, after all, it has to be here
somewhere, not far from its regular home base, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it? You pat
pockets, run your hand behind the cushions, look under the couch, question the
Missus, give the evil eye to the cats ( oh, they’re quite capable of knocking
items from shelves and dressers you know), check the magazine rack, the trash
can, the bed, but no.

I go to the web and the online banking site. Whew! No bad
guys have used the account, not yet anyway. I decide to call on my friendly
banker and check my options for lost checkbooks. A very serious looking lady
explained, “Well Sir, you have ten lost checks. I can put a stop on them for $30 a check.”

"WHAT! Three hundred bucks? You’ve got to be …… Surely,
there’s another solution."

“Or, we can cancel the account and set you up with a new
one.”

Hmm. That was an option all right, but not without
consequences. There was auto bill pay and auto deposits to deal with. Geez.

“One other thing we could do is to freeze the account for
ten days. This means no one can use it, not even you without personally talking
to us again.”

I chose door number three and went home with renewed
determination to find the damn checkbook. Since it was late in the day and
happy hour was at hand, I opted to continue the search come sunrise. I would go
through the cars and the house, room by room, inch by inch, searching every
niche and cranny, no matter how unlikely, until I was absolutely positive that
any area larger than 3” by 6” by ¼ “ was devoid of little blue folders.

With sun shining and birds singing to welcome the new day,
I grabbed a flashlight and began my quest. Hoping that I had not yet reached
the early stages of dementia, I reasoned that the car was the last known place
of checkbook occupancy and started there. Besides, it was a smaller area to
search than a whole house.

I backed out of the
garage for better light and access and started in; driver’s side pockets, under
the seat, sun visor, console box, nada. Moved to the passenger side, nothing on
the floor, nothing in back, checked the glove box for the fourth time, and
…hold it! HOLD IT! There, in the back, on edge, vertical against the rear of
the box, now revealed in the glare of the spotlight, a familiar blue cover.The lost (I mean misplaced) was found. Keep
in mind that the Missus and I had reached in that very glove box, removed the
contents, and examined them piece by piece. Not once, not twice, but thrice, yet
always in the semi- darkness of the garage and without a flashlight. With the dark
blue against the black, well, you can easily understand how it happened, right?
Just one of those things. Could happen to anyone. Getting old had nothing to do with it.

That doesn’t mean I’m ruling out the cats as the root of the problem, not yet.

Saturday, February 16, 2013

Mr. Arnold has a pond. E-I-E-I-O.And on this pond he has some swans. E-I-E-I-O.My old fishing
buddy Arnold lives just up the road. Arnold has made many improvements to his
home over the years, the neatest one being the digging of a pond out back. Arnold
and I have spent many a pleasant evening sitting on his patio, sipping spookers,
while watching a variety of birds come in; Green Herons, Great-white Egrets, song
birds, and of course, Canadian Geese.The
geese began making daily appearances. At first, it was kind of cool to sit and
watch the big birds come swooping in, honking and carrying on, making dramatic
splashdowns in the water. But the novelty faded as the goose population grew.
Then they began laying eggs. Arnold had
a problem and we all know what that problem was don’t we? Yep, goose poo.There was poo around the pond, there was poo
on the grass, poo on the sidewalk, and poo on the driveway. Everywhere the
goose traveled, he left a stinky trail behind.

All manner of
deterrents–short of the lethal ones–were tried in an attempt to discourage the
rampant homesteading. Nothing worked for long. That’s when Arnold heard about
swans and how territorial they are. A pair of swans would drive off the geese–or
so went the theory–and wouldn’t they be pretty; swimming around so elegantly,
displaying their beautiful feathers for all to see? Immigration problem solved. Good photos ops too.

The search began
and as luck would have it, a mated pair of mute swans was located within a few hours’
drive. The birds took to their new digs immediately, paddling round and round
in quiet contentment. Eagerly, Arnold and I watched the skies for the return of
the geese. What would happen? Would there be blood and broken wings? Would
something like an avian gang fight break out leaving the lawn covered with
feathers lost in battle? Not exactly. It was more on the lines of, “Hey boys,
come on down. There’s room for everybody. Want a beer?”

Oh, there were a few
brief skirmishes, head down, feathers up kind of charges, but no actual
contact. By all appearances, a treaty was drawn up and home turf established. “You
guys take the north side and we’ll hang around the end nearest the house and
the shade tree.”

Time passes. Mated
swans do what mated swans do; they mate. Then there were eggs. Then there were
baby swans, cygnets they're called, four of them. Three grew to adulthood. The
fourth disappeared in the night, fate unknown. So now, in addition to the
throngs of Canadian Geese, the swan population has jumped to five. Arnold insists
he does not need or want five swans. Ads in various forms of media went out
with a couple of interested parties responding. But there was a catch; the
potential buyer’s wanted to be sure of the sex of the birds, a male and female preferable.
So, which of the five are boys and which are girls? Arnold had no clue.

The male swan, called
a “cob”, has no external genitalia. The female, called a “pen”, hides her
privates as well. (Who comes up with these names?”
The Internet sites are of little help, most citing the difference being the
size of the black knob at the base of the bill with the male’s being slightly
larger. The thickness of the neck can also be an indicator, or so they claim.
In real time, with five birds bobbing on the water, it’s a tough call. But Arnold
has a plan.

“It’ll be a two-man
job,” he says. “I’ll use my shad net to
catch ‘em. Then you’ll put a hood over their head and hold them while I part the feathers, do the exam, and tag ‘em.” How did I get involved in this?

I agree to the
strategy, but only under the condition that Arnold mixes up a pitcher of margaritas
for a little liquid courage before we begin. The plan seems simple enough. What could possibly go wrong?

The details are
being finalized as we speak. I see this as the historical reenactment of the Okie’s famous last
words. “Here, hold my beer and watch this.”

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

The first sign of a problem appeared in the form of an
electric bill. OMG! The thing was at least a hundred bucks higher than I’d ever
seen before, this with a relatively mild month. Clearly, something was amiss. Did
the electric company raise their rates? Sounds right, sort of like the oil
companies do in the summer with more cars on the road. But no, a look at the
kilowatt hours revealed a much higher than normal usage. How could that
be?

Let us a pause a moment while I explain my heat and air system. I do not have natural gas or propane. The
humble abode is all electric. My hot and cold comes from a single device called
a heat pump. This little engineering marvel performs both functions…to a point.
Below 30 degrees, or thereabouts, it reverts to a more common method of heat,
namely a fan blowing across a heated coil. Sort of like a giant toaster, but
much more expensive. In this mode, referred to as “auxiliary heat”, the little silver
wheel on the electric meter spins like the tassels on a well endowed stripper
(not that I would know about such things mind you).

I went into my professional diagnostic analytical
troubleshooting mode and came to the brilliant conclusion that the “heat pump”
portion, the compressor part of the system, had up and died, leaving the
heating duty to the kilowatt sucking toaster coil.

Not to worry, I think, the unit is less than three years old
with a parts and labor warranty.I call
the company that installed the contraption. No answer. Well, those boys are all out on the job. I wait till the end of the
day and try again. No answer. Not even a recording. I try again the following
day. Same results. Damn, damn, damn.

As a member of Angie’s list, I check Angie’s site for a
reputable service in the heat/air department. The woman who answers seems to
have a bit of an attitude, but she does promise to send help… tomorrow. Next
morning, the guy, apparently of Mexican descent, shows up and pokes
around with a flashlight. The problem, he proclaims, is that two copper lines
are lying against each other and due to the vibration of the compressor, have
rubbed a hole allowing the refrigerant (what I call the gas) to leak out. He shakes his head. I wait for the rest of it. “The refrigerant is
not covered by the warranty.” Figures.

“Okay, big whoop. Fix it and fill it up. What choice do I
have?”

An hour or so later, he hands me the bill. HOLY MOTHER OF
GOD! It looks like the bar tab for Randy Travis. Almost 600 bucks! I rant. I rave.
I curse Angie and the horse she rode in on. I call the Mexican’s company and
complain. I find a heat&air forum on the Internet and rant on that. I get
no compassion, no refund, no consolation, no “Oh boy did you get screwed” sympathy cards ,
nary a tear. The new gas, the R-410 it’s called, can cost up to $45 a pound I’m
told. Who makes this stuff, BP?

“The R-410 is better for the environment,” the Mexican explains.

Well la-te- freakin’-dah. I now understand the term going
green. It means the folding green in your wallet is going bye-bye.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

It’s not unusual, not at all, but it happened again, some
idiot crossing the double yellow stripe, heading straight at me. I’m sick of
it.

Between the humble abode and downtown Sand Springs lies a section
of narrow two lane highway with a couple of 40 mph curves. Of course no one
actually slows to 40 mph, that’s understandable; this is after all, Oklahoma. But
it’s not the speed that scares the crap out of me, it’s the fact that so many
drivers cannot seem to master the simple skills of staying in their own lane as
they negotiate a curve. There is no escape route. It’s either the ditch and the
telephone poles, or a head-on collision. Not a great choice.

Of course, we know the real reason for this, don’t we? It’s
not a lack of skills. Even a reasonably sober person could accomplish the maneuver
with ease. Nope. It’s cell phones. If you watch closely as the other driver
zooms past, and I always do, he or she will be talking on their cell, driving
with one hand, a glazed look in their eyes, totally unaware of the highway menace
that they are.

Don’t believe it’s dangerous? Check out the daily paper
where they list the traffic deaths. There’s a pattern here .

·Failed to stop at intersection.

·Crossed the center line.

·Went off the side of the road and overcorrected.

Folks, you don’t make those kinds of mistakes, we’re talking
fatal mistakes now, if your eyes and attention are focused on the road ahead.

Don’t even talk to me about texting while driving. Dumb.
Dumb. Dumb.

And now, as if we didn’t have enough distractions, nearly
all the new model cars are coming out with a center dash GPS and entertainment
center. Go ahead, reach over there and scroll down through the songs you want
to hear. Type in that address. Dial up the weather satellite. Hell, Tweet
somebody. You’re only going 65-70 mph, a hundred feet a second, inside a two ton missile. What could possibly go wrong?

I’m going to tell you a story about the time I almost killed
two little boys. I tell it to everyone that will sit still for a minute. I tell
it often because I think it illustrates a point. If you’ve heard it before, you can stop here.
So long, nice talking to you.

The City of Sand Springs has something in common with San
Francisco; they are both quite hilly. The similarity ends there. It was a sunny
weekday afternoon. I was in my old pickup, going down a steadily declining
grade leading into the heart of downtown. I was in no hurry, holding at or around the
speed limit, when I came upon yet another cross street. Red octagonal stop
signs were in place to halt oncoming traffic from both right and left. The
street to my right was not only steep toward my direction of travel, but mostly
hidden from view by a good sized hill where an old house sat.

As I approached the intersection, my peripheral vision
picked up movement on my right. In one split second, there were two young boys
directly in front of me, riding double on a bicycle. The look on their faces is
a snapshot forever imprinted in my brain. Mouths open, eyes wide in total
terror, they went with their natural instinct to survive, to get as far away as
possible from the monster machine flying toward them, and tried to jump from
the bike. At one moment in time, I had two scared boys directly in front of me,
and the next instant, frantically slamming the brakes, they were gone,
disappeared, out of sight. Where were they? Under the truck? Dead? Dying? Was
there a thump? I didn’t think so but…

I jumped from the truck and ran to the front, my heart about
to jump out of my chest. The boys were getting to their feet, brushing
themselves off.

“Did you get hit? Are you hurt?”

“No, we’re fine.”

“Are you sure? If the truck touched you, I’m calling the
police and an ambulance.”

“No, we weren’t hit.” They seemed adamant about it.

“You know you blew through that stop sign don’t you.”

“Yeah,” they admitted.

And with that, they hopped back on the bike and peddled off.

An old man sitting on his front porch had seen the whole
thing and approached. “I see those two
boys do that, run that stop sign, almost every day after school. I figured, one
of these days…”

So here’s the thing, the moral of the story. If my reaction
time had been one fraction of second slower, if I had been dialing a number on
my cell phone, if had reached for a CD , or if I had had so much as a couple of
beers, those boys would be dead or seriously injured today. From a legal stand
point, I would have probably been found not guilty, circumstances like they
were. But the faces of those boys would haunt me at night for the rest of my
life.

Sure, I’ve been distracted with the very things I’m ranting
about.Drink and drive? Oh Lord, many
times. But not in a long, long while. I’ve been lucky.